


Oleander and Ferns

by kweros



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age of Consent, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Indian Harry Potter, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Redemption, Tattooed Harry, Tattooed Harry Potter, Top Harry Potter, Trans Draco Malfoy, Trans Harry Potter, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25021372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kweros/pseuds/kweros
Summary: Draco has been stewing in a sea of self-loathing, his past trauma finally catching up to him all at once. But when a mishap with a magical creature lands him on the front doorstep of an unexpected someone, will he finally be able to heal from his past? And what's more, could he help to heal the other as well? (Both characters depicted are 19.)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 11
Kudos: 36





	Oleander and Ferns

3 days. That’s how long it had been since Draco had last slept, and it was beginning to show. Bags under his eyes was not a good look for him, and neither was his entire body shaking, little twitches that only served to make him more aware of what a mess he was. And then there was the state of narcolepsy he found himself in-- falling asleep during the day for no more than a couple of minutes. The loss of control wasn’t what really scared him though. It was what came after. Roused back to consciousness, he’d often find himself screaming in terror, crying even. He was in hell. And he knew why. It was this damn house. The walls loomed over him like Father had when he was a child, and although Draco now found himself a head taller than Lucius, that looming feeling remained. It wrapped itself around his organs, his senses, forming like a knot in his stomach. The knot had only gotten tighter over the past two years. He didn't see Father or Mother anymore, their presence having fallen into a strained silence. What was there to say? An apology from them that would never come? A sorry for raising him to be a monster like them? A plea for him to forgive them for all the flashbacks and panic attacks he suffered daily? No, no. It would never happen. And still the walls loomed. He didn't even know why it had become this bad so suddenly-- his crying had become less frequent, his fevered shaking becoming but a light tremble. But now, without warning, without reason, now he jumped at his own shadow. Was a structured environment the only thing that had kept him from falling to pieces for all those years? Was he now without meaning, without purpose? What was the point of him now, if not to be used by all and loved by none?

Draco swung his legs over the bed, rising to his feet with a wobbly stance. His body felt heavy while his head couldn't seem to get enough blood pumping to it. A walk. A walk was what would make him feel better, albeit only slightly.

Muscle memory usually led him to the door, to the courtyard where the peacocks trotted, to the paths that winded their way around the property. Instead, with a sense of numb surprise, he saw his hands folding clothes into a suitcase. For what? What was he doing? He didn’t stop himself, instead watching his hand guide his wand, flicking clothes into a leather rucksack. It was mindless, unthinking work that he watched his own body do before he slung the sack over his shoulder. Draco didn’t know where he was headed, but he just kept walking out the door, not even registering his father’s voice asking just where he thought he was going. Did he even have shoes on? It didn’t matter. His mind just kept focusing on the past, the past, the past, the one place he longed to go, to change things, to rewrite his story, to do anything that might have prevented this state he now found himself in. But he had no Time-Turner, and all he could do was balance as an acrobat did, walking across a tightrope of the common threads of his life. His family, his fear, his loneliness…and him.

Draco felt his throat tighten when the image of Potter flashed in his mind, those black locks flying, those green eyes shining, skin the color of a warm late-autumn day, that smile of his that filled his blood with intermingled emotions, hot and stormy and wrong and right, the thoughts that he had always struggled to keep down bubbling up in his brain, now crackling to the surface in this fragile emotional state he found himself in. Fantasies of him and Potter spending long nights together curled up by the fire, leaning into each other, embraced, taking off each other’s shirts, melting, melting, melting, tongues and flesh and nothing but the two of them. His cock stiffened, a reminder of the nights he had spent trying to shamefully expel these thoughts of his, the ones that could never be--

“Arwaaaaaa…..”

Draco snapped out of his stupor in an instant, ears pricking up and eyes widening. Looking around, it was clear that his wandering had brought him to the forest that stood to the north of his family’s manor. He did not recognize these trees, especially not when it was so dark. But he did recognize one thing. A silvery-white creature stood behind a tree not 5 meters from him, leering at him with its sunken eyes. A hairy hand wrapped its way around the front of the tree, the bearlike creature slowly beginning to hunch as it revealed more and more of its gangly bearlike body. A Hidebehind. Draco’s blood ran cold, normally razor-sharp brain scrambling to remember exactly what he knew about the creatures.

_ They’re native to America, aren’t they? _

__ Its shoulders were beginning to hunch.

_ What the hell is one doing here? _

Its hands dropped to the ground.

_ THINK. THINK. DRACO, WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THEM? _

__ Legs were contorting themselves into a sprinter’s position.

_ RATING: XXXX. BUT WHY. WHY. WHY. THEY’RE NOCTURNAL. THEY CAN TURN INVISIBLE. WHAT ELSE. _

__ A grin spread over the creature’s face, a horrible toothy smile of sharp, yellowed teeth, flecked with bits of gore from a recent meal. Rabbits? A deer?

_ THEY’RE SHAPESHIFTERS. THEY’RE SHAPESHIFTERS. AND THEY. THEY... _

His panicked gaze finally landed upon something sticking out from beyond the tree. A foot. A human foot. The true horror of the situation finally dawning on him, he locked eyes with the creature as the final part of the puzzle gripped his mind.

_ THEY EAT HUMANS. _

With a bone-chilling screech, the creature leapt at him, only landing inches from Draco, the wizard breaking into a run among the trees as the suitcase fell from his grasp, his long stride jerking into a sprint of panic and desperation and becoming incapable of a single coherent thought. All his tiredness was gone, replaced by blood pumping and heavy breathing, every cell in his body screaming at him to LIVE. And so he took off, running among the brush where no path was laid out for him, where all he had was his fear in his broken mind was to guide him, adrenaline pushing him ever forward as he heard the screeching cry of the beast behind him, only inches from him, just out of reach, he  _ had to stay out of reach _ .

He had no idea how long he had been running in the dark like that, but he had no right for running as long as he did without tripping over something or running into a tree, a thought that struck him as sweat dripped down his brow. Perhaps it was an ironic trick of the universe, but he fell to the ground as soon as he registered the thought, face-first into the brush. It was painful, yes, but in an agonizing flash and crushing blow, the creature was on him, the cruel sting of the fangs sinking into his flesh, his calf burning as he thrashed around, straining to get a good angle so he could cast a hex at the creature, so he could live, goddammit, he wasn’t going to die like this, no matter how fitting an end it would be for a pathetic creature like him. 

He was thrashing, thrashing, screaming at the top of his lungs, but it wasn’t working, the Hidebehind had his legs in a vice grip, almost mocking him with that damn smile, now covered in his own blood. His bowels twisted in his gut like the jagged teeth had twisted into his leg, as they were again as another surge of pain shot through him in his other leg. It was over, it was hopeless, he was going to die here-- THERE.

He found his opening when the creature got cocky, when it came up from the second bite, hungry for a third, and the hold on his legs lost a bit of its force as the creature reveled in Draco’s agony. That was its mistake, and Draco seized the moment, mustering all his strength in moving his leg before releasing a burst of kinetic energy in kicking the creature straight in its ugly face. With a howl, the Hidebehind stumbled back, hands clutching its face as it released Draco’s legs completely. Despite the pain, despite the blood loss, Draco was on his feet in an instant, running again, getting some distance. He needed to get out of here, that’s what he needed. 

The howling was getting closer again and Draco squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on apparating. Where did he want to go? Where did he want to go? No image came to mind, just the word “home”, being repeated in his brain in increasingly frantic tones, bile rising in his throat, it's getting closer, closer--

He felt fingertips just brush his back before a resounding  _ crack!  _ filled the air around him, he thought he was being tackled again when he felt his entire body being squeezed, thoughts of his life flashing through his mind as he embraced the end, thinking of Harry, Harry, Harry….

And then nothing. Not nothing as in the void taking him, but nothing as in the pressure around him suddenly ceasing. The air smelled of mildew, conjuring up images of rot and death, fearing the worst. Was he dead? Was he rotting? His eyes snapped open. He was standing on beige carpet, on the second floor of a building...somewhere. In front of him stood a large oak door with a bronze number 9 staring at him. Safe. He was safe. He didn't feel relieved or even glad to be alive-- the only thing he registered was feeling vaguely ill, his stance wobbly. He felt his fist knock on the door before he glanced down at his legs, where large chunks of flesh had been gouged out, where blood was flowing down his calves and ankles and dripping onto the ground. 

The last vestiges of strength were leaving his body as the landing began to spin, one coherent thought forming.

__ _ It’ll be a nightmare for some Muggle to get the stain out of this carpet. _

__ His legs gave way and he felt his body hit the ground as he heard the sound of the door opening. A familiar voice faintly echoed in his brain, a shocked tone that repeated his name. He wanted to look up to see who it was, to answer, to beg for sanctuary. But before he could do any of these things, exhaustion finally claimed Draco’s tortured form.

\---

Draco awoke, and the first thing he felt was softness beneath him. At first, he almost thought that he was back home in his bed, the last vestiges of a nightmare drifting from his mind. But then the second thing he felt was the heat around him, stifling and sticky, and he knew he couldn't be in the Manor, a realization that brought the memories of everything that had happened rushing back to him. What had happened to him had been no nightmare.

His eyes snapped open and he tried to move his legs as muscle memory, but was seized by a stabbing pain, a burning fire that forced him back onto...a couch? Yes, this was a couch. Not one of the luxurious leather ones like he had at home-- this one, he noted, was worn and slightly firm, but still very comfortable. But whose was it?

With an audible wince, he shifted his form to get a better look at his surroundings. The room he saw was simple, to say the least. If he was being kind, he might have called it minimalist. Draco had never been vulnerable enough to be kind. That was one luxury he couldn't buy with his Father's money. And so his judgemental eyes took in the light wooden flooring and the dingy windows and the lone crimson rug and the shabby armchair the color of mud with a small table before it. Close to the opposite end of the couch, he spied a couple of bookshelves the same color as the floor, one empty and the other half-full of disorganized texts. A vague sense of recognition struck him as he looked at a few of the book spines, but he couldn't tell, he couldn't read at his distance and angle (Draco had always needed glasses, but had been too proud to ever get them.). Instead, he let his gaze continue as he shifted his form again with a twinge and a grunt, becoming engrossed in the worn wallpaper. 

Like the rest of the room, it was simple-- an off-white color (or had it been originally white and it was just that old?) with a repeating pattern of clusters of pale pink flowers and ferns. Again, simple, but he found himself lost in the design, just staring blankly at the printed plants, eyes darting from cluster to cluster in time with the dull, throbbing ache in his legs. So entranced, he didn’t hear the footsteps from behind the couch, instead being jarred by the words he heard.

“You up?”

Two words. Two simple words, but he knew who had spoken them. But it wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be. His body jerked upwards into a sitting position, pain shooting through his form and a groan escaping him. But that discomfort was nothing compared to the shock that awaited him. A man holding a tray of tea stood before him, green eyes flashing as they always did, partially obscured by dark ringlets of long hair and his glasses. Draco felt his heart skip a beat for a moment where the world was frozen in time. Before him stood Harry Potter.

“Don’t get up, stay there.”

“I...I....”

The words died on his lips as he watched the other man walk to the table, setting the tray down.

“I did the best I could,” Harry sighed, settling in the armchair and pouring tea into one of the two teacups. “I’m no healer, to be fair. The damage was bad, really bad. I couldn’t risk taking you to St. Mungo’s, though.”

Harry took a sip of his tea, watching Draco all the while with a pensive gaze. Draco was still frozen, mind somehow both whirring away and completely still, a stream of incomprehensible thoughts babbling away.

“Normally this is the part where you say something.”

Draco could only think of one thing, the culmination of years of feelings all bubbling up at once.

“I’m sorry.”

The other man let out a bit of a laugh, setting down the teacup.

“Alright, well, that’s not a ‘thank you’, but that’s something.”

Heat rose to Draco’s face as the babbling in his brain moved to his mouth.

“Th-Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Potter. Thank you, I would have died without you. I don’t know how to thank you enough, but I--”

“Okay, well, that’s a little much.”

“I...Well, it’s the truth.”

Another laugh. Was Draco doing something wrong? He was suddenly aware of everything he felt, everything he thought, everything suddenly becoming amplified somehow.

“I know,” Harry smiled, those brilliant teeth of his making Draco’s mouth go dry. “I know. I just thought it was funny, Malfoy.”

He saw him take another sip of tea, and Draco saw those green eyes shift into an intense, contemplative expression.

“You like peppermint tea?”

His voice was soft, a bit more caring than it had been before, the grin melting into a gentle smile.

“I...not my favorite, but yes. I like it.”

“Fair enough.”

With a couple flicks of his wand, Harry poured tea into the other cup, floating it over to Draco on the couch, where the other took it with eager hands and sips. It was just what he needed, all warm and cool in different ways, more mellow than the buttery candies Draco sometimes let melt in his mouth. No, peppermint tea wasn’t Draco’s favorite, but this was the best tea he had ever drank in his life. Which is why the next question cut so deep.

“So, Malfoy, what the hell are you doing here?”

Draco nearly choked on the tea.

“What?”

“I think it’s a fair question,” Harry sighed, running a terra-cotta hand through his own dark hair. “You show up on my doorstep, which I don’t even know how you even found, bleeding to death. How’d you even get this way? I patched you up, I think I’m owed an answer or two.”

“I...I...you’re right, just let me think.”

Draco paused before he recounted the story to Harry, altering the last part somewhat-- instead of confessing the frantic thoughts of the word home he had had, he instead mumbled that he had meant to go home to the Manor, that he had no idea how he had ended up at Harry’s doorstep. It was at least somewhat true. He watched the other wizard’s expression all the while, how those emerald eyes narrowed and widened as Draco told him everything. When at last Draco was finished, the silence was deafening.

“Okay. Uh, wow.” That was all Harry said before he took a long sip of tea.

“Yeah.”

“It’s a lot. That’s a lot. Think it’s my turn to do some thinking.”

Draco snorted, not a malicious laugh. For the first time in forever, he found himself smiling, taking sips of tea once more as he watched the other wizard looking thoughtful, asking Draco to repeat parts of the story every so often (“You said it was a  _ what _ ?” “A foot, a human foot.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, Potter, let me go back and check-- of  _ course _ I’m sure.”) .

It was a while before Harry leaned back, sighing, as though he had reached a conclusion.

“Okay. So, a couple things. Honestly? The most worrying part of your story is that foot business, if you are right about that. You said they’re native to North America?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.” The horror of the situation fully dawned on Draco, and he found his next words came with a dry mouth. “That means it’s killed, and it might have killed more before. And it will keep killing unless it’s stopped.”

“Alright, well, calm down, hidebehind populations must be kept in check somehow in North America.”

“But this isn’t North America, Potter, this is England. For all we know, it might not have any natural predators here.”

“That...that’s a very good point. I’ll send a couple owls, don’t worry about it, okay?”

“Oh,  _ that’s _ reassuring.”

“Listen here,” Harry started, giving him a severe look. “You show up on my doorstep, expecting me to fix you up--”

“I didn’t  _ expect  _ anything, I told you--”

“Right, well, it happened, I had to fix you up, and you’re here lying on my couch incapable of walking, wandless--”

“Wait a minute, wandless?”

Draco found himself panicking again, feeling his pockets for his wand. Nothing.

“Don’t bother checking.”

“Potter, what did you do to my wand?”

“Oh, yes, Draco, like I was the one who broke it,” Harry huffed. “It was broken when you showed up here. Dunno if it got smashed by the hidebehind or if it shattered when you apparated all wonky, but it was in pieces when you got here. You can get a new one once you’re healed, but for now, you’re not flying or apparating to Diagon Alley to get one.”

“I can get there just  _ fine,  _ thank you.” Draco snarled, leaping to his feet. Agony instantly seized him, and he let out a scream, falling to the ground. He heard Harry sigh and he felt his hands on him, not gentle nor overly rough, just firm as he picked him up, hands on his body grabbing him and lifting him onto the couch, heat rising in his face again for a different reason now, and he prayed it wasn’t obvious.

“See?” Harry said pointedly. “You think you’re going out to get a new wand like this? You’re staying right here, Draco, and you’re in my house now. And you are not going to bully me here, you got it?”

Draco looked at Harry’s angry expression, the pain behind his eyes, and all Draco’s aggression melted into remorse. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco muttered, dropping his gaze, unable to meet the other’s eyes. “I just...I just don’t like being helpless.”

The truth fell from his lips so easily, it startled him somewhat. From the silence, he could tell it had caught Harry off-guard too.

“I get it.” Potter’s voice had a gentle firmness to it, the strength he had always known him to have shining through. “I do. But there are better ways of expressing it. Draco, you’re...you’re better than this now. At least, I thought you were.”

The words, honest as they were, stung. Harry....was disappointed in him?

Emotions bubbling up in his heart, ones he couldn’t find the words for, ones that were all just pooling in a bittersweet soup. While it simmered in his mouth, he could hear Harry rise to his feet, walking out of the room. Before he left, though, he said one more thing.

“You can stay here while you heal. As long as you behave yourself. I’m not your punching bag, Malfoy.”

“No, you’re--” Draco started to say, but Harry was gone, leaving him alone with only the tea, the wallpaper of oleander and ferns, and the silence. He took another sip of the tea he loved so much. It was cold now.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was originally done as a commission (I agreed to it and started writing it before JK Rowling fully took the mask off as it were), but I'm expanding on it because my brain is massive. This is my first time publishing on here, so let me know if the formatting is wonky.


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